Pretty Things Beautiful Things
by Keryl Raist
Summary: Michael wants to get something pretty for Fi, but all the pretty things around him aren't enough to say what he want to. Romantic fluff set in some non-specific future time.


Spies should not get married. There are the big issues, like putting a spouse and family in danger. The less big but still problematic issue of going to the same place every night makes you easier to trail and your cover easier to blow. There are middle range issues like trying to live with someone who can never know what it is you do, and never being reliably around for any sort of important family gathering. Then there are the little issues like wedding ring tan marks, or the dent a ring that doesn't fit properly leaves on your finger, all of that can blow your cover to pieces.

Michael Westen knows this. The man all but wrote the book on spycraft. He's forgotten more about being a good spy than many in the game will ever know. But even knowing this, he's thinking the rule might not apply to him, not anymore.

First off, everyone who knows him well enough to know he is Michael Westen already knows about Fi and Sam and where his mom lives. These things are not secret, not anymore. And, on top of that, if he's gotten onto your bad list in the last six years, it's entirely likely Fi and Sam, maybe his mom and, probably Jesse, had a hand in it, too.

Basically, if someone is gunning for him, he already has to protect them, because now they are a package deal. There is no more safety in anonymity anymore, not for Michael, not for the people he loves.

He's not actively thinking about this as he wanders around The Glades, though, like the location of every person near him, he's aware of it. It just hasn't jumped from something in the background to the front of his mind.

He's thinking about finding something pretty for Fi. Fi likes pretty things, and he doesn't get them for her nearly enough. He promised himself that if he got her back, _when _he got her back, he was going to do a better job of being a boyfriend, and right this second, he's actually got the downtime to do something about it.

But as he wanders around, his eyes scanning the shops, nothing seems right. There are plenty of cute things, and he knows that Fi would happily buy out the shoe shop he just passed, but nothing he sees fits what he wants to give her.

"Michael!" An elderly black man steps out of a jewelry store, smiling at him. "Come on in. I've got some new things for you."

"Hello Jerome," Michael smiles, genuinely pleased to see him. They helped his granddaughter get away from an abusive drug-addict boyfriend three years ago, and ever since Jerome has been their connection for jewelry.

Looking the part is often as much about the details as the broader picture. When Fi needs to look like the idle rich, she needs the jewels to pull it off, and Jerome has been willing to lend them to her. When they need proper watches, rings, cuff links, whatever, he's their go-to guy.

"I got back from an estate sale two weeks ago, and found a few things that will be perfect for you." Jerome leads Michael back behind the counter. "This old lady liked to collect class rings, and she had a few that I think you'll have use for." He opens a small pouch and takes three rings out.

"I've already got them sized for your crew. This one is for Sam." He hands Michael an Annapolis class of '78 ring. Michael nods, images of Admiral Finley in his mind. "This one is for Jesse." West Point, class of '98. Perfect. "And for the lovely Ms. Glenanne." This one he doesn't recognize immediately. He picks it up to look closer, Vassar class of '92. They don't usually send her in as the high-power businesswoman, but if they ever do, this'll help.

"They're perfect Jerome. How much?"

"For you? Fifty."

Michael pays and leaves. He continues walking around The Glades, rings in his pocket, and periodically he touches them, aware of how small and smooth Fi's feels compared to the other two.

He walks with half an eye on the things around him. Pretty little things sparkle at him.

Then, finger on the ring, he stops. Fi is not pretty. Fi is hard and sharp and dark and dangerous. She is joy and chaos and fire and ice and pain and home. No, Fi is not pretty. Fi is beautiful, and as he stands there surrounded by cute, fluffy, pretty things, it occurs to him that he wants something beautiful for her, and there is something beautiful he can give her, but he can't buy it for her.

He turns and goes back to Jerome.

The older man is surprised to see Michael back so quickly.

"Michael?" He's not paying much attention to Jerome, but looking at the trays of rings in front of him. Nothing looks right to him. They are all soft gold and sparkly gems waiting to get snagged or broken. And while he knows that she likes fragile and sparkly, he doesn't want this symbol to be fragile. Nothing about them, about what is between them, is fragile. Finally he drifts over to the men's rings and begins to see things that may work. Harder, stronger, and beautiful things catch his eye.

"Jerome, can you make rings?"

"Certainly. What are you thinking?"

Michael doesn't look up from the rings in front of him. They are smooth, with nothing to catch on anything, and made of titanium, hard and strong.

"I'm thinking of a single diamond, a setting like this"—he points to a ring with a flush set diamond—"in steel, with two bands of black titanium around it."

Jerome nods. He seems perplexed, but gets a sketch pad and begins to draw. Michael looks at what he's drawing and can see the proportions are wrong. "Not a man's ring. A ring for Fi."

Jerome looks up slowly, and a huge grin spreads across his face.

"A diamond ring for Fi?"

"Yes. She likes asscher cut diamonds. I'm thinking on point instead of square."

He bends back down over the pad, sketching fast.

Michael thinks Jerome should be done. The ring he's sketched is exactly what he wants, solid, strong, and he can imagine the light glinting off the diamond and polished steel, beautiful.

But another ring is taking shape on the pad. After a few minutes, there is a second, larger ring that looks almost identical to the first one, lacking only the stone.

Jerome watches him look at his work, and then says, touching the drawing of Fi's ring, "This is a wedding ring, not an engagement ring. And since I don't know anyone who gets just one wedding ring, I drew yours, too." Michael nods. He can imagine the matching one just as well, and the idea of it on his hand feels right.

"Thank you, Jerome." He looks around at the pretty, fragile, sparkly things around him, a lost expression on his face, and Jerome seems to know what he's thinking.

"Michael, I shouldn't say this, because engagement rings are my bread and butter... but engagement rings are stupid. Most women, in general, and Fi, in specific, don't have big enough fingers to wear that much bling without it looking tacky. Stick another ring on her hand, and either she'll be taking it off as soon as this one goes on it, or it'll look dumb. And with a ring as beautiful as this one, I don't want you messing it up by sticking another one on her hand to go with it. If you're chomping at the bit to give her something today, find something else, I know she likes shoes."

"How long to make them?"

"For you and Fi, I'll have them done in three days. Not too long to wait?"

"Not too long."

"Come on, let's find a diamond to put in this ring. Asschers are pretty rare, but I think I've got one she'll love."

* * *

Dinner is over. He cooked and is in the process of clearing off the plates. Fi's sitting on what he considers her side of the bench, wine glass in hand, telling him about her latest adventures. She wraps up and says, "What did you do today, Michael?"

This is not usually a question she asks. Normally she knows what's going on, but for the first time in—has it really been seven months?—he didn't have anything going on.

"Went shopping." Not really a lie. He did buy something. Just the shopping for it happened a bit earlier.

"What for?"

"Believe it or not, something for you."

"Really?" She looks pleased and confused and he tries to remember how many presents he has gotten her over the years. He comes up with a smaller number than he probably should have.

"Yes."

He puts the dishes down, and walks behind her, draping her hair over her shoulder, and for a moment just holds her, his face against her shoulder. She stiffens a little as he does that, easy, gentle physical affection is something, that even alone, they don't do much of. He mentally kicks himself for the fact that they have the sort of relationship where this isn't part of a routine. Kicks himself for the fact that they don't have a routine, period.

He makes a mental note to work on that, then pulls the little box out of his pocket, hands it to her, and looks over her shoulder as she opens it.

"Michael!"

"You like them, right?"

She nods, fingers skimming the surface of the rings. He can only see the side of her face, and he's not entirely sure what her expression means.

He starts talking. "I was thinking; would you like to get married?"

She's staring at the rings, holding the box cupped in a slightly trembling hand, saying nothing, and he's suddenly very afraid this was the wrong move. "Only if you wanted to. If you don't, it's not..."

She turns and kisses him. The kiss that follows is surprisingly tender, there is no hint of violence, and goes on for a very long time.

"Yes," she says when she pulls back. "I'm just surprised. Happy, very happy, but very surprised. What has you thinking about this?"

He takes her hands in his and stares directly into her eyes. "I wanted to get you something pretty, and well... Nothing pretty was enough. Nothing pretty was right. I was holding the rings Jerome had found for us, and then I just knew what I wanted to do for you."

He kisses her forehead, then continues, "We are married, Fi. At least, in any way that matters to me, we are. I didn't know it when I did it, didn't really know it for a long time, but when I shot Strickland, I married you. He was talking about you being my past, and there was a blood red rage at the idea of a life without you. That was it, the moment when you became my forever. When you wrapped your arms around mine and that bomb, and said, 'When the time comes, we'll do it together...' I don't know if that was your forever moment or not, but it mattered more to me than any vow, any promise, or any ceremony we could have.

"Three days ago, it occurred to me that you like pretty things, so I went looking for something pretty. Because I don't get you pretty things often enough. And I don't do the boyfriend thing well. And I want to be better at it. But standing there, surrounded by pretty things, I realized I wanted to get you something beautiful, and I thought a wedding, and a promise to be better at this whole everyday life together thing, was something beautiful I could give to you, if you wanted it."

Fi thinks about that for a moment. "In Ireland. The Black Sands Pub. You were playing darts with the lads. You tossed one into the bulls eye, saw me, winked, and handed the rest of the darts to the guy next to you. You walked over, smiling the whole time, and asked me to dance."

"That was the first time we met."

She shrugs a little. "You walked into my life, and I knew it was never going to be the same."

He smiles at her. A real one, without a trace of his deer-in-the-headlights or smiling-because-otherwise-he'd-be-cursing-or-crying look. "So, you and me, a beach somewhere, the prettiest dress you can find and a pair of those ridiculously impractical but sexy shoes you love, setting sun, and a priest to say the words. We can get dinner at a great restaurant and go dancing after."

"You really mean it?"

"I really mean it. I don't think it's a good idea to try and get all of our friends and family there. That's just asking to have to fight a gun battle to get to the reception."

"That could be interesting." She smiles prettily at him.

"A bit more interesting than I want our wedding."

"I'm teasing. But Sam and your mom?"

"Jesse, too. Maybe Sean. But if we try to get all the Glenannes..."

"I know, gunfight. Half of my brothers would have to be smuggled out of Ireland, and the other half would have to be smuggled back in."

"Or it could be just us if you like."

"Your mom would kill us if she missed our wedding."

"Probably. And Sam would pout."

She laughs at that, laughs at the whole thing, not mocking, but she can either laugh to let the joy our or cry, and right now she doesn't want to cry. "Find us a beach and a sunset, Michael. And I'll find the dress."

* * *

Three weeks later, Michael stands on a beach at sunset in front of a Priest who only spoke Spanish, with Sam, his arm around Elsa, and Jesse to his left.

Michael isn't a poet. He's never felt any lack from that. But right that second, as Fi walks toward him, escorted by his mom, he wishes for a better way to put the words that go with this image. She is beautiful, orangey-pink sunset making her cream silk sheath dress look licked by flame. Sunset sparkles off of gems at her throat and sprinkled through her hair.

She stands next to him, and he's not sure how to even begin dealing with the feelings coursing through him. He smiles at her, otherwise he might cry, and he sees what he assumes is a similar expression on her face.

The Priest begins to speak. He repeats words he does not know, and does not care too much. They are married by blood and fear and passion and a shared life that no two other people could even come close to matching. And that's all the promise he wants or needs. This is about a beautiful thing, a memory of something soft and lovely and safe, for both of them, to celebrate both of them. So when he kisses her and slips the ring on her finger, this is no more forever than yesterday was and tomorrow will be, but it is lovely, and the rings are beautiful, and it turns out it was something that Fi wanted that he could give to her.


End file.
